


A BIT OF BOTH

by Wolfiekins



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Adult Content, Adult Language, Implied Peter Quill/Gamora - Freeform, Implied Peter Quill/Kraglin Obfonteri, Light Angst, M/M, Other, Pre-Slash, quill/rocket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: It's more cramped than it should be aboard the recently-repaired Milano, and aside from Drax, everyone else is on edge, especially Quill, who's had about enough of Rocket's constant upgrades.





	A BIT OF BOTH

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up right after the conclusion of the first movie. I've tried to work in some canonic details of the comic 'verse, but since this is my first foray into this genre, hopefully the characters ring somewhat true.

“Well, you know Yondu, better'n just about anyone.” 

Kraglin Obfonteri's image fills the largest of the translucent screens arrayed before Quill's centre seat. 

“He gets right cheesed off, threatens everyone, yells louder'n an orloni in heat, thinks better of it all, then plays with his Yaka arrow. Bark's always worse than his bite.” Kraglin rubs at his stubbled chin. “Ya over-reacted, baby boy.”

“Don't think so.” Quill shifts in his seat, tapping at a series of digital icons stacked on the left side of the screen; Kraglin's image sharpens enough to clearly make out the scars and Ravager tatts adorning his friend's earnest countenance. “And I've done a helluva lot more than sneak a magnum of his Oskervarian brandy or trash his fave Marauder.”

Kraglin's image nods. “You mean like _stealin'_ one of 'em, and then takin' off without a word?”

“That's it. Thanks for the reminder.” Quill taps the NAV panel, holding then swiping a finger to adjust _Milano_ 's course around an uncharted interstellar debris field. “Throw in the crap with the Orb, and you can see why I ain't itchin' to run home for Sunday brunch with you and the boys.”

“I getcha,” Kraglin replies in his thick drawl, “but as much as the old man's been bitchin' and grousin' about it, he understands that hangin' onto a fuckin' Infinity Stone would've been too much of a hassle for us, not to mention downright impossible fer anyone. Would've only been a matter of time before some psycho or maladjust came after it, if not Thanos himself. Yondu's got an ego the size of a red giant, but he ain't suicidal.”

“Yeah, but he's no good at turning the other cheek, and he never forgets when someone rubs his fur the wrong way.”

After nearly thirty years with the Ravagers, no one better than Quill understands Yondu's elliptical brand of logic, not to mention his unstable and at times explosive Centaurian temperament. 

When Quill'd first been kidnapped all those years ago, he'd barely been able to process what'd happened to him. Kraglin, recently 'conscripted' into Yondu's ranks and only a few years older than Quill, had taken pity on him, doing his best to shield him from the worst of Yondu's unpredictable behaviour. 

They'd instantly become a constant pair, each covering the other's backs. 

The overused joke about Yondu's men wanting to 'eat' Quill was anything but during those first months aboard _The Despoiler_. More than a few of the crew belonged to races where cannibalism was not only uncommon, but actually encouraged, or worse, _sanctified_. Factor in an entirely male crew, sometimes Interstellar for weeks or months at a time, and 'eat' took on an additional meaning, though that somewhat less literal context was just as unappealing.

And it wasn't Quill's fault that he had a totally sweet ass.

So he and Kraglin made sure that neither became 'dessert', so to speak, becoming fast friends and eventually, much more than that. 

“I hear ya,” Kraglin agrees. “You dented his pride up some, and he's gotta keep up the pretence that he's spittin' mad to keep the boys in line. Ya know the drill. We _both_ do.”

“Exactly why I'm doing my best to make sure we don't cross paths anytime soon.”

“Makes sense, I reckon. But don't worry about the old man puttin' bounties on ya'll. He made like he was goin' to, but he let me talk him outta it way too easy. And I know fer sure that he's warmin' back up to ya, as he's got that little Troll thing of yers right smack on the arm of his seat on the command deck.”

“He does like his chachke.”

“Sure enough.” Kraglin's image leans back a bit, his head tilting to one side. “So, ya doin' okay?”

“Yeah, super fine,” Quill answers, throwing on what he hopes resembles a genuine smile.

“Bull. You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

Another pause, and Kraglin's image frizzles out amidst a burst of static. “Looks like we're losin' the connection. Didja get that datafile?”

Quill swipes at the Comm screen. “Yup. Transfer complete.”

“Everything you need to know about Quoros and Itzak Zolari. I sent a 'burst lettin' him know you're comin'. If anyone can help ya find the Scrolls of Q'ox'Q'tal, it's him.”

“You're the best, dude.”

“Wish I were with ya on this one. I hear Quoros is friggin' gorgeous.”

“I'll send you a postcard.”

“Yeah.” Kraglin's image nods, and Quill can't help but notice the obvious disappointment etched onto his friend's features.

“If we manage to find and broker those scrolls, you know you're getting a share of the proceeds for helping out.”

Kraglin waves a hand. “Don't need ta do that, but I surely won't argue if extra Units appear in my account. Ya know ya can ask me anything, anytime, and I'm keen on it.” 

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for risking your ass to send it, anyway.”

“Not a problem. And not risky at all. If I cain't manage to properly encrypt and bypass Yondu's Comm protocols my now, I might as well hang up my blaster and take up something stupid, like, I dunno, protectin' the galaxy.”

More static abruptly slices through Kraglin's crooked smile as his image breaks up again. 

An orange telltale lights up on the Comm panel. Quill taps several icons in sequence, kicking up the gain to maximum; the transmission clears up slightly. “You'd be good at it, man. Really.”

“We was one helluva team,” Kraglin replies, his expression collapsing for a split second. “Could be again.”

Quill leans toward the screen. “Then get your ass to Quoros. We'll wait for you.” He arches an eyebrow meaningfully. “ _I'll_ wait for you.”

Kraglin averts his gaze for a long moment. “We done talked this out before ya ran outta here, Pete.” He swallows hard. “Ya know I cain't leave.”

“You can do anything you want. If it's important enough,” Quill counters.

“Don't effin' do that,” Kraglin warns, his expression guarded. “Ya know what you mean ta me, man. How much I—”

“How much, _what_?” Quill interrupts, slumping in his seat. He holds up both hands. “Well?”

“Ya know _what_.” 

“You always had trouble with that one little word.”

Kraglin snorts. “Jest 'cause I don't blurt it out every ten seconds don't mean it ain't what I feel. Not everyone wears their damn heart on their sleeve.”

“Might be better if everyone did.”

“ _S'hans tchak t'au!"_ Kraglin spits out in his native tongue. “Yer impossible!”

Quill bites his tongue, only giving the barest of shrugs in response.

Kraglin makes a rude noise. “Dunno what I ever saw in you.”

“I can think of a few things, namely this,” Quill replies, grabbing his crotch to palm the notable bulge in his leathers. “I got big, and you couldn't keep your hands off. Ain't no crime in knowin' what you like.”

Kraglin shakes his head. “Yer such a fuckin' A-hole. It ain't never been about yer dick or how good lookin' ya got to be—”

“Yeah?” Quill quits stroking himself. “So, what then? What the fuck is it?”

Kraglin's image freezes then breaks up for a few seconds; when it stabilises, Kraglin's rubbing his temple with a thumb and forefinger. “There ain't no place I'd rather be than by yer side, Pete,” he says softly. “You gotta know that.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Quill strokes himself for a moment, finally waving his hand as if to dispel an odour. “Whatever the _fuck_ ”.

Kraglin swears under his breath. “Why ya gotta be like this, man? We had it real good, fer a damn long time. I dunno what happened to you, Pete.”

“I changed, that's what. I got sick of livin' under Yondu's boot. I needed to get out, get away.”

“From everything? From me?”

Quill opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. He knows his lips are trying to form words, and failing, so he turns his head, hoping to look like he's scrutinizing an auxiliary display panel. He's suddenly short of breath, too.

_God DAMN it!_

“You know it had nothin' to do with you, man,” Quill says as steadily as he can. “You always were the only thing that kept me safe. And sane.”

Kraglin leans back in his seat. “So I gotta ask again: Why'd ya leave?”

The implied _me_ comes through loud and clear, even through sub-space.

“I had to get off _The Despoiler_. You know that. And you need to, too.”

Kraglin shakes his head. “I cain't. No matter how much I might wanna.”

“Krags, c'mon, man—”

“I cain't leave Yondu.” Kraglin leans forward, his eyes ablaze. “I just cain't. It's all I can do to hold the shit together, here. He needs me, man.”

Quill nods. “And what if I need you more?”

“We ain't gonna do this again. Ya made yer choice, and I made mine. I jest wish ya weren't such a stubborn ass, but I don't expect I'll live long enough to see ya come to yer senses.”

Quill waves a hand. “Maybe I'll surprise you.”

Kraglin snorts again. “Yeah, that's one thing I reckon I can count on.”

“I meant what I said, about joining us, _me_ , out here.”

“I know. Wish I could, man.”

“Airlock's always open.”

“Right back at ya,” Kraglin says, grinning forlornly.

The comm crackles importantly to itself, and there's nothing between them for more than a few seconds. 

Quill blinks first. “Better let you get back to it,” he says. “We jaw any longer and we're risking a trace. Good to see you, brother.”

Kraglin nods tiredly. “You too. Really miss ya, man. It sucks around here with you gone.”

Quill struggles again to smile. “Keep in touch. Send a 'burst whenever you can.”

“You got it. Watch yer ass, brother. Hate to have somethin' happen to it.” Kraglin flashes the Terran sign for 'peace'.

Quill returns the gesture, grinning at their shared in-joke. “Keep the faith, dude.”

“Always. Yer what keeps me goin'.” Kraglin grins, his image dissolving to roiling static before blanking out. The words _Transmission Ends_ pulse red for several seconds before the screen reverts to its default view of the starfield aft.

Quill yawns and hoists himself out of the centre seat, rolling his shoulders and stretching as best he can without smacking into the transparent canopy of _Milano_ 's flight deck. Swiping and jabbing at one of the curved display screens, a series of _boops_ confirms that the Auto Nav's successfully engaged and holding course for Quoros.

“Damn,” he says to no one, rubbing at his eyes with both hands. 

Leaving _The Despoiler_ , and Kraglin, had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He'd begged Kraglin to join him, and when his lover had finally refused, Quill's initial disappointment had quickly morphed into resentment, followed almost immediately by outright rage. The fact that Kraglin did nothing to stop his departure spoke volumes, though Quill's still wounded pride was proving more bothersome than he'd anticipated.

And it had been Kraglin who'd risked a trace to reach out, so maybe things weren't as fucked up as he'd thought. After the scroll hunt, there'd be plenty of time for a possible meet up, maybe on some neutral pleasure planet where they could hang out for a few days in some idyllic beachfront condo and sort things out. 

With a final glance at the proximity and status displays, and satisfied they weren't flying into a white dwarf or some such, Quill nods around yet another huge yawn. He bats at a toggle and the centre seat slides aft, a section of deck grating retracting to reveal the narrow stairway to the main deck. He starts down, grabbing the handrails and launching himself downward, boots together and legs straight out. 

He whooshes down the stairway, releasing his grip on the smooth rails for the sure-to-be-cool dismount.

 _Milano_ chooses that precise moment to initiate a minor course correction, canting slightly to starboard and more than a few degrees down the Z-axis; there's no way the inertial dampeners can compensate.

“Oh, shit,” Quill mutters, the deck now off-kilter and a foot lower than a second ago. 

He glances off the long side of the mess table and careens past Rocket to land smack on his ass, skidding across the deck plating and coming to a stop in an altogether tangled heap against the rear bulkhead.

He looks up to find Drax regarding him with a definitely bemused expression. 

For Drax, anyway.

“A most inventive method of traversing the stairway,” Drax observes sagely. He's sitting on one of the two orange-cushioned lounges flanking the main deck, obviously engaged in yet another session of earnest knife-polishing. He tilts his head slightly. “Are such spontaneous acrobatics a requirement of being a Star Lord?”

Quill can't figure out whether Drax is serious or simply giving him shit. 

Probably a bit of both. 

“Don't you ever sleep?” Quill heaves himself up with as much dignity as he can muster. 

“I do not require reconstitution at this time,” Drax replies matter-of-factly. He stops polishing to gesture with his slickcloth. “But it would appear that you do.” 

“No, no, I'm good.” Quill brushes off his leather trousers, pulling at the crotch a few times to get everything back where it belongs. “We're on course and all scans are clear, so I thought I'd relax a bit down here.”

Drax eyes Quill a moment longer before returning his attention to his blade. “As you wish, of course. Would not your bunk provide a better environment for this... _relaxing_ you seem to revel in?”

“Yeah, well, I don't wanna disturb Gamora.” 

“She is extremely protective of her solitude,” Drax says without looking up. 

“You can say that again.”

“Why would I wish to repeat myself?”

Quill waves a hand. “You wouldn't. And neither do I.”

Drax's only response is a non-committal grunt.

Quill flops onto the lounge opposite Drax, settling in and feeling way too comfortable.

When it'd just been himself and the old _Milano_ , he'd bunked exclusively on the main deck in the lounge. Once he'd installed his stereo unit, the whole space pretty much became his quarters. Now, of course, all that's been thrown out the nearest viewport. 

During _Milano_ 's rebuild on Xandar, the techs had thoughtfully converted two small maintenance bays into rudimentary crew's quarters. Definitely no frills though, with minimal storage, two bunks, and a reclamation unit in each bay. 

Drax and Rocket bunked in one, leaving the other for Gamora and himself. While that arrangement had initially seemed ideal, things quickly took a header as Gamora'd refused to allow him to move his stereo unit down there. Worse, she slept as lightly as any sentient being that Quill's ever known, mostly due to her intensive biometric enhancements. Which only made sense, as a person would make a _really_ horrible assassin if they'd slept like the dead.

According to Gamora, though, he's not only a _cover hog_ , but reportedly snores as loudly as a 'mis-aligned ion drive'. Plus, she finds the regularity and potency of his nocturnal 'out-gassing' patently offensive, going so far as to suggest that Rocket design some sort of gas-capturing undergarments for him. 

As if _that_ was ever going to happen. He didn't have any doubt that Rocket could design _anything_ , but he'd never hear the end of it.

It seriously ticks him off, too, as none of his previous bedpartners had ever complained of that particular issue before, though it did seem that Terrans out-gassed a bit more than most bipedal humanoids. Besides, it was a sign of good health.

Nothing he could do about _that_ , nor Gamora's inter-species intolerance.

After a week of bickering and sparring like a pair of Orloni in heat, Quill'd pretty much abandoned the bay to Gamora, who seemed satisfied with the arrangement. At least he didn't have to listen to her carp about his snoring any more, though the lounge was anything but private these days.

Quill stretches out, gesturing vaguely. “So I think I'll just hang out up here for awhile.”

Drax tilts his head to one side. 

“Which part of you will be hanging? That does not sound remotely restful.” 

Quill blows out a breath. “An expression, dude. Hang out means to, you know, sit around, relax, shoot the shit—” He cuts off, smacking his forehead.

“Why in Creation would one target excrement?” Drax notes what must be a very pained expression on Quill's face. “Oh y es, of course. More metaphors, slang, analogies. It confounds me how an entire race of sentient bipeds ever managed to evolve while communicating so abstractly and erratically.”

“It's a gift,” Quill replies tiredly.

“As you say.” Drax shrugs. “Hovat is sufficiently cleansed, and I can attend to Kamaria later.”

“Um, yeah, that's nice,” Quill says, doing his best not to pull a face. He doesn't know whether it's cool or creepy that Drax has named his knives in honour of his dead wife and daughter. 

Okay, he does. 

Definitely not-cool. 

And maybe creepy. 

_Mondo_ creepy.

“Don't run off on my account,” he adds, stretching out on his lounge with a sigh. 

“I do not intend to run anywhere,” Drax intones, standing and stowing his blades in their calf-holsters. “I shall retire to the flight deck and observe operations, thus allowing you some seclusion.” He jerks his head forward, where Rocket's currently engaged in yet another most likely unnecessary project, the the mess table in the common area heaped with datapads, scribbled notes, piles of circuitry and sundry components. 

“As much as can be afforded, that is.”

“Thanks, man, I appreciate it.” Quill shoots a dark glance in Rocket's direction, the not-really-a-raccoon seemingly oblivious to them. “Always screwin' with something.”

“He has a questing mind,” Drax muses, arching a browridge. “And a fierce desire to be of service.”

“I could do with a little less questing and a lot more order.” Quill settles in, propping himself up on an elbow. He grabs his headphones. “The Auto Nav's locked in. We should hit the edge of the Quoros system in eight hours or so.”

Drax nods. “I shall awaken you one hour before that time. Enjoy your dormancy period.”

“Thanks.” Quill flips a toggle, dimming the lights on the deck to grey mode. 

Drax withdraws to the flight deck amidst some grumbling from Rocket, who switches on a pair of work lamps.

Quill stares pointedly at Rocket, who's either ignoring him or so engrossed in his work he doesn't notice. 

Probably a bit of both.

“Fuck it,” Quill grumbles, scooting down and thrashing around until he finds a vaguely comfortable position. With a contented sigh, he jabs a finger at the power button of his stereo unit. It's been a long-ass day, and he wants nothing more than some peace and quiet with good old Mix Tape #1. 

He plugs in his headphones, closing his eyes.

When nothing happens, he cracks open an eye, staring at the stereo.

All the indicators and meters are dark.

He presses the power button again, holding it in for a long moment before releasing it.

“What the hell? C'mon, baby.”

Still nada.

“Goddammit.”

He tries a sideways push across the squarish button, feigning disinterest in hope that the damned thing won't notice his anxiety and power up already. 

It doesn't.

He hoists himself to a sitting position, glaring at the cobbed-together piece of tech. He twiddles a knob before giving the faceplate a solid _thwack_ with the flat of his palm.

Continued unresponsiveness.

“Alright, who's been messing with my shit?”

Seedling-Groot nods and bobs from his nearby pot, lifting his spindly arms in a clear gesture of ignorance.

“Some help you are,” Quill fumes, swinging his legs over the edge of the lounge.

“I am Groot,” Seedling-Groot squeaks.

“Thanks for the news flash.”

Quill doesn't really ask for much. 

Really, he doesn't. 

He's a pretty happy-go-lucky guy, unless unstable psuedo-father figures or psychotic Accuser types are trying to kill him. 

Just don't mess with his stereo, or his Walkman. 

Pretty fuckin' simple. Everything had been simpler before that crap with the Orb and the festivities on Xandar.

Before they'd been dubbed Guardians of the Galaxy.

Which _sounds_ cool, but what does it mean, exactly? They're now expected to perpetually patrol the universe, zapping bad guys? Who gets to decide who's truly _bad_? Do they need approval or something? And it'd be a _major_ pain in the ass if they've got to hightail it back to Xandar and Nova Corps to grab the Infinity Stone every time a major A-hole pokes their head up.

So no real job description, and a crappy benefits package. As in, _no_ benefits, as in, _no_ regular influx of units. Fuel and provisions weren't free, and the modest honorarium from Irani Rael wouldn't last forever. 

So they're headed for Quoros to try and dig up the long lost Scrolls of Q'ox'Q'tal. Plenty of units to be had by legally retrieving artefacts, though not as much as simply _taking_ them, of course. 

But they had to set an example, now, didn't they?

Gamora seemed content to follow his lead, while Drax saw no problem with the notion of hiring themselves out as professional assassins. And Rocket...

“Rocket,” Quill growls, cradling his head in both hands. 

The fuzzy bastard had _no_ respect for his ship, constantly tearing into consoles and bulkheads to, in his words, 'fix the shit'. _Milano_ didn't need _fixing_ , and most times, Rocket's modifications yielded no measurable improvements, or worse. 

Quill leaps from this lounger to stomp importantly across the deck toward the common space. 

“Yo, Rocket, what're ya fuckin' up now?” He leans on the mess table as Rocket solders away like there's no tomorrow.

“Gee, I dunno, Cap'n,” Rocket replies sweetly, not bothering to look up. “But I'm sure you're gonna tell me.” 

Quill _hates_ it when Rocket calls him that. And he's damn sure the little shit knows it, too. 

“My stereo's not working, and if you've messed _that_ up—”

Rocket holds up a paw. “Keep your panty hose on, okay? Lemme finish these last few connections.” He spares Quill a sidelong glance. “You look like crap, by the way. Probably oughta snag some shut eye before we get to Quoros.” 

Quill draws himself up to tower over Rocket. “You know what? I frickin' agree with you! Funny, though, but the _one_ thing that helps me get to sleep in a hurry is conspicuously absent about now.”

“Man, you get _really_ cranky when you're ragged out.” Rocket's ears flatten, and his soldering iron sizzles and sparks one more time. “There, that's got it!” He holds up the still smoking circuit block as if it's a treasure equal to an Infinity Stone. 

He slides off of his stack of crates and trots over to an open access panel, deftly sliding the circuit block back into one of the tertiary nexus manifolds. 

There's a series of clicks and a faint _whirr_.

Rocket folds his arms across his chest and rocks on his heels, nodding toward Quill's lounger and stereo unit. “Check it out.”

Quill looks over his shoulder. 

His stereo sits there mockingly, powered up and ready to go. 

“Great. It's working. It did that _before_ whatever you've done to it.”

Rocket rolls his eyes, climbing back atop his crates and pouring himself a glassful of something blue. He quaffs a good portion of the stuff before sitting back and grabbing a datapad grip. He taps the control bar, and the translucent tablet materialises, instantly filled with scrolling data.

“Yeah, you could say it was functional before, but could it do this?” He cranes his neck toward the stereo. “Play tape, volume level, two.”

The mellow opening of 10 cc's “I'm Not In Love” wafts across the deck from the concealed speakers. 

Quill knows he's gaping like an idiot.

Rocket snickers in his odd, hissy manner. “You're welcome.” He hefts his glass, downing more blue booze. “I'd hoped to have the basic mods done by the time you wanted to grab some z's, but that stereo unit of yours is one ancient piece of tech. Had a hell of a time rigging up a voice command module for it. I'd have been able to add a track search feature too, but that archaic magnetic tape format isn't suited for it. Too damned fragile. Gimme another 13 hours, and I'll figure it out.” He pauses meaningfully, widening his stare as if waiting for something.

“Well, thanks,” Quill manages, pulling up a stool to sit next to Rocket.

“Now that didn't hurt much, did it?”

“You didn't have to, you know.”

“I know,” Rocket replies cryptically. 

Quill feels strangely uncomfortable under Rocket's wide-eyed scrutiny. “Is that Xandarian whiskey?” he blurts, averting his gaze.

“Maybe.” 

“Any left?” Quill indicates Rocket's nearly empty glass. 

“Oh, fuck yeah.” Rocket drops the datapad and pushes aside a pile of circuit boards to grab the neck of a squat, bulbous bottle still two-thirds full of the blue Xandarian liquor. He slides it over to Quill.

“Not sure if this'll help me sleep,” Quill says, uncovering a chipped mug and filling it to the brim.

“Passing out works, too. At least for me.” Rocket winks, topping off his glass. 

Quill does his best not to flinch. He sips the whiskey, at first smooth and icy cool, then wonderfully warm as it swirls around his belly. He spares Rocket a glance, and there it is _again_ , that look, _the_ look, the one that he gets from at least half the clientele of every astro-pub or backwater saloon he swaggers into. 

A look of wanton need, a glance of thinly veiled desire.

Something that speaks of pants-around-the-ankles and hard members thrusting against one another in the nearest darkened corner.

_No 'effin' way!_

Quill realises he's staring and downs a good portion of his whiskey.

_What the fuck's going on?_

Rocket spares him a definitely bemused expression. “I did the best I could with your unit there.” He waves his free paw over his head, indicating the music. “Really shitty tech. I should crack that thing open and replace—”

“Don't touch it!” Quill snaps, immediately sorry for it. “I mean—”

Rocket holds up a paw. “Power down, big guy! Wouldn't dream of doin' that without your express, written consent.” He leans an elbow on the table, his ears swivelling to full attention. “Hear that?”

Quill shrugs. “Um, no. Hear _what_?”

“Exactly! There's always been some serious hiss not to mention a nasty buzz going on during playback, and with ears like mine, it was driving me flarkin' crazy. I traced the problem down to the starboard power conduits. The shielding was shit, shoulda been grade one but it was grade three, do ya believe it? Wasn't grounded properly, either. Anyway, once I'd replaced it and re-routed the starboard mains to the ventral—”

“You've re-built half the power grid? Most of the ship's brand-spankin' new!”

Rocket leans toward Quill, his nose quivering purposefully, whiskers angling back against his snout.

“Oh, yeah, Xandar's _exactly_ where you want to have your M-class Marauder overhauled. _I_ wouldn't let that bunch of multi-coloured freaks clean my blaster, let alone build a starcruiser! Whiskey's the only flarkin' thing they do right. And of course you trust your buddies at Nova Corps implicitly. Man, sometimes you scare me, you really do.”

Before Quill can utter a response, Rocket tosses him a spider-shaped component trailing a mass of snipped wires.

“Pulled ten of those monitoring 'bots from various junctions all along the starboard conduits. I'm guessing there's a shitload more planted all over the ship. I'll get to 'em all, eventually. If it's okay with the _Star Lord_ , that is.”

Quill turns the 'bot over in his hand. He angles his head to Rocket, who's got that look and again, clearly waiting for something from him. 

He knows he's been a little hard on the guy, but then again, Rocket doesn't exactly win over hearts and minds with his short fuse and overcompensation issues. Sure, it must _really_ suck to be barely four feet tall and wired with a buttload of cybernetics, but that's no excuse to be a complete A-hole most of the time.

Still, the fuzzball's heart always seemed be in the right place, which should count for something. 

It should count for a lot, actually.

“It's cool, really. And thanks, man,” Quill says, bumping his mug to Rocket's glass. “Thanks for taking the time and making the effort. I really appreciate it.”

Rocket leans back, his expression guarded. 

“Do you?”

“That's what I said, innit?” 

“You know I don't mind at all.” Rocket vaguely waves a paw. “I'm pretty good at this shit.”

“I know.”

“I just want to pull my weight around here.”

“You are.”

Rocket blinks at him, suddenly averting his gaze and draining his whiskey. 

10 CC segues into Redbone.

“It's important that you get where I'm coming from,” Rocket says so quietly that Quill barely hears him. “This,” he throws his arms wide, “ain't easy for me. Not used to having a gang or stayin' in one place for very long. Havin' a base. A _home_. Not since I lost my ship, anyway.”

“The _Rack'n Ruin_ , wasn't it?”

Rocket perks up noticeably. “Yeah! How'd you know?”

“You're not the only one who knows how to surf the 'net. Or hack through datawalls.”

Rocket snisses again. “I always figured you weren't as dumb as you let on. But lookin' the way you do, your cognitive quotient should be less than half of whatever your chest span is.”

“Well—” Quill angles his head back, arching an eyebrow. “You just slammed me, didn't ya?”

“You mean you can't tell? I rest my case.” Rocket laughs heartily, but it dies almost instantly. “She was a bad-ass ship, man. Had her just the way I wanted.” He locks gazes with Quill. “You know what I mean, dontcha?”

“For sure.” Quill glances around the deck. “This? She looks like _Milano_ , and sorta feels like her—”

“But she's not _her_ ,” Rocket says knowingly. 

“Right! But close enough, I guess,” Quill admits, swallowing some whiskey.

“Yeah, well, there's that.” Rocket picks up the datapad again, tapping and swiping at it so swiftly that Quill has difficulty following the movements. “There's something else I wanna show ya,” Rocket says, turning around as the large flatscreen mounted to the bulkhead behind them flickers to life. “I know I probably went a little overboard with this, but that's how I roll.”

Quill swivels on his stool as Rocket's claws _tick_ across the datapad. A series of entries fill the flatscreen, scrolling past for several seconds. He squints at the expanse of plasticon. “Whoa! Where the fuck did you find all that?” He jumps up, tapping an entry on the screen, and Redbone's abruptly cut off and a new track starts up. “Man, how did you know? These songs—” 

“Just a simple algorithm I worked up to catalogue the musical fingerprints of every song on your mix tapes.” Rocket stands on his crate, gesturing to the screen. “Then, I established a connection with the Great Archive on Lornus.” 

“Never heard of it,” Quill replies, grinning like an idiot as he reads through the long list of Terran music displayed before him. “This is fucking amazing!” 

“They've got the most comprehensive data stores on virtually every inhabited world, even, as it happens, your Earth. A really unimaginative name for a planet, by the way. Anyhoo, I plugged my algorithm into the Archive's search engine, and _blammo_ , scads of hits! Could've gotten low-res homeworld analog versions from the long-distance repeaters, but _these_ are super-clean, hi-def files with no corporate encryption. Cost me more than a few units for the wideband 'burst links, but it was worth it.”

Quill suppresses an urge to sweep the little jerkwad up and hug him until they reach Quoros. “Dude! I haven't heard this since I was a kid! Goddamn Blues Image! Jesus!” Quill whirls around, clamping a hand to Rocket's furry shoulder. “ _Ride, Captain, Ride, on your mystery ship_ ,” he sings, bobbing his head and shuffling his way around the table. “ _Be amazed, at the friends, that you have on your trip_!” He downs his whiskey, grabbing the bottle and filling his glass again. “This was one of my Mom's favourites!”

“Awesome! That's what I was hopin' for!” Rocket says, and he smiles, which tends to look like a snarl, but there's a difference Quill can easily discern. “I mean, there's no way I could've factored in personal tastes and all that crap, but based on the selections she'd put on the tapes, the algorithm should've had no problem finding similarly themed tracks from the same time frame.”

“I can't believe that you went through all this trouble for... for—”

“You?” Rocket says. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well, I dunno—”

“I really wanted to do something cool for you,” Rocket interrupts, one ear laying flat. “Something you'd like.” He gazes up at Quill, starts to say something yet immediately thinks better of it.

“I _like_ it,” Quill enthuses, hunching down next to Rocket. “I like it a _lot_. He bumps his shoulder to Rocket's.

“Good, well, yeah, great!” Rocket splutters, sucking down more whiskey while his free paw nervously pushes random components around the table. “Anything you want, anything you need, you got it. Just ask.” He tilts his head just enough to take in Quill. “Anything, anytime at all, uh, Peter,” he finishes, the last nearly inaudible under the music.

Quill barely quashes an urge to throw his arm around Rocket's shoulders. 

_Had Rocket ever used his first name before? This Xanderian shit's pretty potent._

“Well, thanks, dude, but don't say that, 'cause you don't know what I might ask you for someday.” He bumps Rocket's shoulder again, and instead of pulling away, he pauses, maintaining the contact.

Rocket seems to almost hold his breath for a quick moment before letting out a long, deep sigh. He throws Quill a sidelong glance before his right paw drifts from the work table to hover in the air over Quill's left thigh. “When I say anything, I mean anything, Peter.” He looks up and grins. “Anything you want, I'll do it.” He allows his paw to drop the remaining few centimeters, barely grazing the surface of Quill's fatigue pants. “Anything at all, man,” he whispers, pressing harder and slowly running his paw along the top of Quill's thigh.

“Rocket, dude,” Quill manages, surprised to find that he'd held his breath. “I had no idea—”

“Really?” Rocket says, both ears laying flat. “You gotta pay better attention, Peter.” He trails his paw down and up Quill's inner thigh, applying more pressure as he goes. He glances down, deliberately pushing his paw against the underside of Quill's bulge. “Man, so nice.” He swivels on his crate and lays his other paw on Quill's knee.

Quill's mind's a blur. What the scratch was going on? Rocket had the hots for him? Had that been the pathology all along? Had he seen the signs and ignored them? Whatever, in the here and now, the lay of the land was pretty damn clear.

Blues Image segues into “Can't Find My Way Home” by Blind Faith.

“Rocket—” he begins.

“You okay with this, Cap'n?” Rocket asks without looking up. He cups Quill's bulge for barely a second before running his paw along the outline of Quill's fatigue-clad dick. “'Cause it seems like you are. I so flarkin' hope you are.”

Quill shifts slightly closer, a flush rising up and out of his collar. He's always prided himself on being open and accepting of all comers, regardless of sex or species, though the most vexing part of the whole thing was that he'd failed to see how Rocket had been flirting with him from the get go. 

And he'd be damned if he wasn't getting a little hard, wishing his fatigues weren't in the way of Rocket's skilled, little paws.

“I'm sorry,” he hears himself say before he can think better of it.

Rocket freezes, his head jerking up. “What?” He stares at his paws, both of which are planted firmly on Quill's bulge. “No, no, I'm the one who should apologize.” He snatches his paws away, turning around to frantically re-arrange components on the work table. “Damn that brandy, always gets the best of me.”

“Hey, man,” Quill blurts out, clamping a hand on Rocket's shoulder. “I meant that I'm sorry I didn't notice all the signals you were sending my way.” He gently squeezes Rocket's shoulder. “I can be a little dense, sometimes.”

Rocket huffs out a breath, one ear laying flat. “You can say that again.”

“I can be a little dense at times,” Quill deadpans.

Rocket glares at him, his other ear going flat like the first one. “You're not right, you know that?” He smiles, tilting his head as he stares up at Quill. “Probably why I like you so much. You're nearly as effed up as I am.”

“C'mon, man, you're not _that_ effed up. I mean, you're pretty effed up, but I've seen worse.”

Rocket arches an eyebrow. “It's a good thing you don't have to rely on your foreplay skills to score bedpartners.”

“What? I can be charming when I need to be.”

Rocket snisses, shaking his head. “Dude, if you weren't so damn big and effin' handsome and all swaggery like you are, you'd have to choke your own weasel to get off.”

“Chicken.”

“What?”

“It's choke the chicken.”

Rocket waves a paw. “Whatever. As if it makes any sense either way.” He looks Quill over from head to crotch. “Can't imagine an entire _planet_ full of creatures like _you_.

“So you think I'm big and handsome?” Quill scoots closer, putting his arm around Rocket's shoulders.

Rocket sticks out his tongue. “Please, you know you are!” He reaches out to ghost a paw over the slight swell of Quill's belly. “Though you'd better be careful, you're about two sandwiches away from crossing over from burly to just plain fat.” He smirks. “And you're sucking it in right now.”

“Am not,” Quill lies, doing his best to keep holding his gut in. “Humans always fill out a little as we age. Just need to step up the workouts, is all.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm not fat,” Quill grumps. “Though Gamora sorta said the same thing last week.”

“Don't sweat it, big guy,” Rocket says. “I just like bustin' yer eggs every now ant then.”

“More like all the time.”

“Guilty,” Rocket admits. He keeps his paw on Quill, slowly shifting upward to graze across the expanse of Quill's chest. “I ain't no good at this stuff, Peter. I ain't never felt like this for nobody before, either.”

“It's okay, man, really.” Quill leans in, making sure Rocket can see the sincerity he hopes to hell is evident in his eyes. “Ya just kinda took me by surprise.”

“Imagine how I feel,” Rocket says over a chuckle. “Only ever been with one other, and she wasn't male.” He snisses, reaching for his nearly empty glass of brandy while always keeping his other paw on Quill. He swallows the rest of the brandy. “Just can't get you outta my head, man. I keep imagining you all naked and sweaty and all that crap, and it's more than a little disconcerting, lemme tell ya.”

“You _fantasize_ about me? Like, naked? And sweaty?” Quill can't suppress a snigger of surprise. “Jesus.”

Rocket's ears perk straight up and he snaps his paw back. “I don't fantasize about you, Star Dork!” He looks away to gaze at anything but Quill.

Quill squeezes Rocket's shoulder.

Rocket turns back to face him, rolling his eyes. “Okay, so maybe I've let my imagination run wild once or twice. What can I say? It ain't my fault you look like you do, and you never, ever close the shower door when you're in there. Are all hummies exhibitionists?”

“Holy shit,” Quill sniggers. “You've been spying on me _in the shower_?”

Rocket makes a rude noise. “Do ya have trouble with your hearing? If you never shut the damned shower door, then anyone who wanders in to, like, I dunno, take a piss or something, can't help but see you all slathered up and running those big mitts of yours all yourself. Honestly, hummies aren't that furry, so it shouldn't take that effin' long to just shower off. Ya know, you must have the dirtiest balls of any species around, considering all the time you spend down there rubbin' and strokin' and all.”

“Wait, wait!” Quill exclaims, throwing his hands up. “So we're not talking a quick glance here, are we?”

Rocket merely shrugs.

“On top of everything else, you're a pervert, too!”

Rocket shakes his head. “Lucky for you.”

“Yeah, I reckon I am,” Quill replies, smirking. “You coulda said something, you know.”

“Yeah, right. The way you and Her Greenness were going at it, I can totally see how I should have stuck my snout in and announced my intentions.”

Quill nods. “Good point.”

“You bet that sweet ass of yours it's a good point,” Rocket says, gesturing for the brandy bottle. “I ain't suicidal.”

Quill slides the bottle to Rocket, who fills both their glasses.

“So now you know,” Rocket says simply.

“Yeah,” Quill replies, sipping his brandy.

“That all you got to say?”

Quill shrugs in a gesture of surrender. “Gimme a minute, will ya? It's a lot to take in.”

“You don't get into furries,” Rocket states flatly. “Or short people.”

“Got nothin' to do with it.”

“I know you do males.”

Quill nods. “Asexual, Tri, Quad, equal opportunity kinda guy, here. Tend to be preferential to bipeds, though.”

Rocket swooshes his tail. “How about this?”

“Tails, tentacles, antennae? Been there, done that, all good.” Quill thinks a moment. “Honestly, not that much into insectoids. Chitinous exoskeletons kinda creep me out.”

“I'm so relieved.”

“Oh, and little mouths at the end of limbs. And totally translucent skin. I like someone with brains, I just don't like actually _seeing_ them, you know?” Quill strokes Rocket's shoulder. “Thanks for letting me know how you feel, man. Everybody gives you shit most of the time, and I know you've gotta be extra tough when you're so short, which explains a lot, but you're not so bad for a snarky little—”

Rocket's eyes go wide, his expression hardening in an instant.

Quill freezes, hunching his shoulders and sucking in a deep breath. “Shit, man, I'm sorry! It just sorta popped out! It's not like I... I didn't mean—”

“Ahh, save it!” Rocket snatches up the datapad, swiping a claw across the screen. 

Blind Faith cuts off abruptly and they're swallowed by silence, nothing but the steady _thrum_ of _Milano_ and the soft _clicks_ of countless relays behind the bulkheads left behind.

“Rocket, I'm _really_ sorry.” Quill huddles close to the not-really a raccoon, who pointedly stares in the opposite direction. “Like I said, it's a lot to for me to process, and you know how I can run my mouth without thinking. You gotta know—”

“You're so full of shit,” Rocket snarls, plopping down on his crates to chug the rest of his whiskey. He wipes the back of a paw across his snout. “Everything you said on Yondu's ship about friendship and sacrifice... meaningless! You talk the talk, say what people wanna hear, and after you get what you want, you kick 'em all right to the friggin' kerb and keep on going your merry, flarkin' way.”

Quill blinks as if he's been smacked. “Come on, man, that's not fair.”

“Don't even go there,” Rocket says carefully, baring his fangs. “Fair? You wanna talk about _fair_? We've both had pretty shitty lives, and I ain't gonna engage in any of that who mighta had it worse bullshit, but what remains is that you're a standard-sized, very nicely formed and aesthetically pleasing, bald-bodied biped, and I'm a one-of-a-kind freak show.” He jabs a claw into Quill's chest. “I'd give _anything_ to have your problems, if only for a hot minute, so don't play the 'fair' card on me, you big, mostly hairless jerk.” Rocket narrows his gaze for a long moment before blinking and making to hop off his crates. 

Quill dares to follow, sitting on his haunches to grab Rocket's shoulders as firmly as he dares.

“I meant everything I said before Xandar,” he says, angling his head to meet Rocket's eyes. “It wasn't bullshit. Then, or now.”

Rocket growls and rolls his shoulders a bit, though he clearly isn't intent on storming off. Quill gives them a little squeeze. 

“Look, man, so much has gone down lately, and it's a lot to figure out. I mean, we didn't know each other a month ago, and now we're Guardians of the friggin' Galaxy, whatever that means. We're all adjusting, and for now, it's only natural that we're getting on each other's nerves. I don't have all the answers, and it's stressing me out.” He gestures to his stereo unit. “For most of my life, the music's all I had, the _only_ thing that reminded me that there was something awesome and good in the universe. It's the only thing of hers I've got left, man. So that's why I get really freaked out when someone messes with my music.”

“At least you got something,” Rocket says darkly. “I'd give anything to have something like that. I don't even have memories of being young, or who birthed me or any of it. It's all been wiped, re-written and changed so many times there's nothin' left. Probably for the best, seeing all the good such crap does for you.”

“I can't begin to imagine what you've been through, Rocket,” Quill says, leaning in close. “What they did to you. No one but you will ever understand that. But to be completely alone, just yourself in the entire universe? I can relate to _that_ , man. I get it.”

Rocket snorts, wiping at his snout. “There you go again, sayin' what you think I wanna hear.”

“I'm not.” Quill leans down and in to make eye contact. “I would _never_ tell you anything that wasn't true or how I really feel. You can count on me, always, and I promise to never let you down again, just believe me, okay? I'm not blowing smoke up your ass.”

Rocket favours him with a wide-eyed glare. “What the fuck?”

“Oh, damn it! That means I'm not shitting you — I mean, that I'm telling you the truth. Godammit, this is why I get so pissed off!”

“It ain't my fault the Terran vocabulary is made up almost entirely of incoherent metaphors.”

Quill rubs his temples, his head beginning to ache ever so perfectly. “Hookay, and now you're starting to sound like Drax.”

“There's a lot to be said for directness.”

“Great. I'll make up a translation matrix for you. Until then how's this: I apologise if I've been a little short with you because you're an insensitive, overbearing A-hole.”

Rocket nods slightly. “See? You can speak plainly if you put your addled mind to it.”

“I respect the fuck outta you, Rocket. You're one of the baddest dudes I've ever seen, and smarter than any techie in the quadrant. Sorry that I haven't told you all that, or how much I appreciate having you with me here. And thanks for all the new music. Means a lot, man, it really does.”

“Whatever.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I won't make _that_ mistake again.”

“Your choice.”

“Damn straight.”

“I know you give a shit, dude,” Quill says, leaning in. “No matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise.”

Rocket makes a rude noise.

“And when I call you 'fuzzball', I mean it as a term of... endearment. Or something.”

“You're still an A-hole,” Rocket says, rolling his eyes and staring at the plating of the ceiling.

“Grade A,” Quill agrees.

“Acceptance is the first step.”

“That's what I hear.”

“I _ain't_ fuzzy.”

“Point taken.”

“Furry, maybe.”

“I crouch corrected.”

“Alright.”

“My legs are cramping,” Quill says around a grunt.

“And you call yourself a Star Lord?” Rocket snorts, wrenching himself from Quills grip. He grabs his glass and swallows half of his Xanderian whiskey. He cocks his head to one side and sighs meaningfully.

Quill drags his stool close and sits, cradling his mug in both hands. 

They sit in silence for many moments, _Milano_ once again barely canting to port this time.

“Sorry about Groot,” Quill offers. “I should have said outright—” 

“Shit happens,” Rocket replies, staring across the dim space.

“You were tight.”

“Like you wouldn't believe.”

“He's coming back—”

“You're fucking Gamora,” Rocket interrupts. A definite statement.

“Yeah. Ain't sleeping with her, though.”

“You shouldn't trust her.”

“I'm not. I'm fucking her,” Quill counters. “Is trust necessary for a good lay?”

“No, but it helps.”

“So, do you _trust_ her?”

Quill thinks on it, and he's surprised he doesn't, or can't answer right away. 

“Dunno. I hope so. And why, exactly, is that any of your business?”

“Everything that goes on aboard this blue and orange excuse for a ship's my business! If we're all in this together, like you say, that is.”

“I can handle Gamora.”

“We'll see, I guess. But she's got serious history, Quill. She turned on Ronin, not to mention screwing over Thanos. And don't forget that if'n it weren't for me, she'd have offed you back on Xandar. Sayin' she's fickle's the understatement of the millennium. Not the type I'd want watchin' _my_ back, that's for sure.”

“So who should be watchin' my back, then? You?”

Rocket makes a wide gesture, nearly knocking the bottle of whiskey from the table. “Who the fuck else, numbnuts? Ain't nobody on else on this boat who gives a shit more than me.”

“Are you... _worried_ about me?” Quill sits back, taking a hefty swallow of whiskey.

“Lookin' out for you is all. Just don't let the... big head to the thinkin' for the bigger head.” 

“I know what I'm doin',” Quill retorts, barely able to restrain a grin. 

What the hell was _that_? Did Rocket just underline why he'd be a better partner than Gamora? No friggin' way.

“If you say so, big guy.” Rocket appraises him a moment, then taps the datapad. “Playlist two, volume one, track twelve.”

A tune begins, and Quill cocks his head, listening intently. “Ohhh, I recognise this one... but I don't remember who it is.”

Rocket angles the datapad. “The Undisputed Truth, _Smiling Faces Sometimes_.”

“Whatever you say.”

_Smiling faces sometimes, pretend to be your friend._

Rocket's eyes lock onto Quill's.

Smiling faces show no traces of the evil that lurks within.

“They all sound the same to me.”

“I don't believe _that_ for one nanosecond,” Quill drawls, downing his whiskey.

“It's a free universe,” Rocket retorts. “Just remember, I'm the one who told you to watch out for the Green Goddess.”

Quill stares for a moment, unable to keep from breaking into a fit of laughter.

“What?” Rocket asks, clearly confused.

“G-Green Goddess,” Quill chokes out between sniggers. “Back on Terra, that's a condiment. A fuckin' _salad dressing_.”

Rocket shakes his head. “You're definitely not right, man.”

“Nope.” Quill slides his mug away and stands up. He lays a hand on Rocket's head, holding it there a second. When Rocket doesn't pull away, he pats him gently, then slowly scratches the soft, thick fur between his ears. “Thanks.” He lets his hand drop to stroke the back of Rocket's neck.

Rocket sits up and pushes into Quill's hand, one shoulder tilting up as his mouth opens slightly.

Quill keeps massaging and scratching, his fingers slowly trailing downward. 

Rocket leans into Quill, his right paw finding its way to Quill's bulge in no time flat. His nimble little fingers quickly find and begin stoking Quill's tumescent dick through the fabric of his fatigue pants. 

_Milano_ cants slightly to port, the music plays, and Rocket snuggles in closer.

Quill leans down, barely grazing his nose along the soft fur between Rocket's ears. The little shit smelled pretty damn good. He watches Rocket palm his hardening dick, instantly aware that if things go any further, he'd be shoving his pants off right then and there.

Not that there'd be anything wrong with that. As in getting naked with Rocket. How would those padded little fingers feel on his skin? On his dick? Was Rocket's tongue smooth or rough, like a cat's? And those sharp little teeth: Rocket could do some serious marking with 'em.

Right? 

 

Quill becomes aware of a soft, guttural purring sound, and he nearly gasps when he realises the source is Rocket. “Wow,” he murmurs, absently wondering how Rocket's teeth would feel dragging themselves along the length of his hard dick. His fingers make larger and larger swirls across Rocket's amazingly firm and muscular back when they encounter the rough, stubbly fur surrounding Rocket's cybernetic implants. He inadvertently jerks his hand away as soon as a fingertip encounters the topmost bit of exposed metal. “Oh, shit, sorry,” he says.

“No problem,” Rocket assures, blinking up at Quill.

“Do they hurt? Is it okay to, well, touch 'em?”

Both of Rocket's ears lay flat. “Everything hurts, pretty much all the time.” When he notes Quill's raised eyebrows, he waves his free paw. “But it's cool. I'm used to it. I got some good shit I take every day, and only some of it's addictive.” He snisses. “And for the record, it feels really damn good when you touch 'em like that.”

Quill nods, his hard-on becoming painful in his current clothed state. He clears his throat and stands up a bit too abruptly, struggling to conceal his aroused state by turning partway to the side and covering his crotch with one hand. “So, thanks again for the mods and the music. For everything you do, man.”

“Yeah, anything for you, big guy.” Rocket's ears perk, his eyes shiny-bright. “So—”

“So? Yeah, so, um—”

“I got some Oskervarian brandy around here somewhere. You like that stuff, right?”

“Yup, I sure do. But hey! Ya know what?” Quill blurts, pulling at the front of his pants. “It's getting kinda late. Right? Yeah, kinda late.”

Rocket's gaze doesn't falter, though his ears droop ever so slightly. “I ain't tired,” he says evenly. 

“Right, no, you're not. Are you? Nope, not tired.” Quill nods as he glances around the galley. “And you know what? I'm tired. Wish I weren't, but I am. Whoa, but I'm totally beat.”

“Uh-huh,” Rocket replies, finally looking away from Quill. “Better go on, then.”

“I don't want to—”

“You only do what you wanna do. So, go.” Rocket half-snarls. 

“It's just that we got a lot on our plate on Quoros.” Quill hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I think I'm gonna to hit the sack. Maybe another time, huh?” He cringes at the lameness of excuses.

Rocket gives him a curt nod, yanking his paw away, his back ramrod straight. “Right. Another time.”

“ _Definitely_ another time,” Quill says with as much conviction as he can muster. “If I weren't so wasted—”

Rocket makes a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, sure, right.”

Quill hunkers down again, trying to meet Rocket's gaze. He reaches out, barely touching the bottom of Rocket's snout. He gently angles Rocket's head over and up. “I'm not going anywhere, okay? We'll pick this up right where we left off once we wrap up the gig on Quoros.”

Rocket makes a meager effort to dislodge Quill's fingers. “Yeah, whatever you say, Cap'n.”

“I mean it,” Quill replies. After a pause, he leans in to leave a chaste kiss to the top of Rocket's head. “Now get some rest. I need you sharp tomorrow, okay?” He hoists himself up, fists planted on hips.

“Yes, sir,” Rocket quips, glancing at the worktable. “I'm, uh, mostly done here anyway.”

“It's cool, do what you gotta do. I'll be out in no time flat.” Quill smiles and gives Rocket a thumbs up. He strides across the deck, flopping into his lounge, his left arm behind his head. 

The Undisputed Truth segues into something else, a male vocalist crooning about never crying. 

_It's just a heartache that got in my eye, and you know I never cry, I never cry..._

Rocket's work lights click off, and the deck is plunged into near darkness.

 _Sometimes I drink more than I need..._

Quill closes his eyes, focusing on the music and the always soothing sound of _Milano_. It's a chore, as his mind's aswirl with all things Rocket. Quill couldn't believe he hadn't seen all the signs, but now, it all made sense. It was pretty fucking crystal that the fuzzball was into him, big time. Which was cool. _Very_ cool. There was so much he admired about Rocket, not to mention there wasn't anyone else as badass to have at your side. Gamora was super formidable, but Rocket was right (wasn't the little shit always?) about her: she was a wild card, and for now, she shouldn't be trusted.

But Rocket? Quill not only knows, but _feels_ , that he can trust Rocket. Implicitly. 

_I may be lonely, but I'm never alone..._

A soft rustle near his right ear snaps his eyes open, and he turns his head, seeing only a shadowy form there, right at eye level.

 _And the night may pass me by, but I'll never cry..._

The shadow stands there for what seems a long time.

 _Take away, take away my eyes, sometimes I'd rather be blind..._

Quill shifts on the bunk, turning on his side to face the shadow. 

_Break a heart, break a heart of stone, open it up but don't you leave it alone..._

Rocket climbs up slowly, carefully. He hunkers down, his back to Quill's chest, sliding up until his head's just beneath Quill's chin. He nestles as closely to Quill as he can, pulling his legs up and curling into a tight ball.

 _'Cause that's all I got to give you..._

Quill does the same, spooning behind Rocket and wrapping his right arm around him.

_Believe me Babe, it ain't been used..._

Rocket sighs deeply. He lays a paw on Quill's forearm, the rhythm of his breathing evening and slowing ever so slightly. 

_And you know I'll never cry..._

Another minute, and he's fast asleep.

Quill settles in, the warmth of Rocket's furry little body incredibly soothing. 

_'Cause that's all I got to give you..._

He manages to listen to another few choruses before sleep also claims him.

 

**_~~~~ fin ~~~~_ **

 

 _"Ride, Captain, Ride" by BLUES IMAGE taken from their 1970 release, **Open**_.  
_"Can't Find My Way Home" by BLIND FAITH taken from their 1969 release, **Blind Faith**_.  
_"Smiling Faces Sometimes" by THE UNDISPUTED TRUTH taken from their 1971 release, **The Undisputed Truth**_.  
_“I Never Cry” by ALICE COOPER from his 1976 release, **Alice Cooper Goes To Hell**_.


End file.
